


My Once in a Lifetime

by archestofenemies



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Historical Hetalia, Implied Sexual Content, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Minor America/France (Hetalia), Minor England/France (Hetalia), Time Travel, not really original character lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-18 14:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21845638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archestofenemies/pseuds/archestofenemies
Summary: France/surprise!character; implied France/England, France/America: America and Canada discover who took France's virginity. The truth is shocking, horrifying, disturbing, and makes too much sense. De-anon from the kink meme with minor edits
Relationships: France (Hetalia)/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 10





	1. I want you by myside

**Author's Note:**

> lmao this is an oldie but goldie

"All right, so I'm guessing it wasn't England," America started, an eager gleam in his eyes. He liked mysteries, and this riddle was one they had never solved. Not even England had an answer, and he knew France from when they were both children fighting it out during the Middle Ages. So it was up to him, the hero, to find out once and for all who made France the pervert he is today.

France laughed and shook his head in denial. " _Non, mon cher,_ though I did take his virginity," here he ducked as a teacup came flying towards his head at deadly velocity, "England did not take mine."

"I wouldn't have wanted to, either, thank you very much!"

America regarded their expressions carefully as England angrily poured himself a new cup of tea all the while giving France a glare that would have peeled paint off of the walls, and decided that they were not lying, at least not about this subject.

"If not England… then Spain?" America guessed. Certainly, France and Spain grew up together, as near brothers as possible, and since everyone knew Spain as the country of passion, it would make sense for France's first time to have been with him.

"Alas, I wish it was Spain, but he was as clueless back then as he is now. Keep going, America," France said, clearly amused by this game.

Getting trickier now… "Could it be Prussia?"

England spat out his tea in shock, and France laughed again. "If that were true, he would have rubbed it into everyone's faces."

"Yeah, he would." America rubbed his chin thoughtfully, mentally reviewing what he knew of France's history, which obviously wasn't much. But hey, besides Prussia, there was another country that bordered France, and who had invaded him at least twice already.

"How about Germany?"

France snorted dismissively. "Hardly so. Can you even imagine that? I am quite certain he is still a virgin, despite my best efforts."

"I guess that would eliminate Romano and Veneziano as well…" Drumming his fingers on the sofa armrest, America pursed his lips in concentration. "Now Austria on the other hand, that guy's a closet pervert, ain't that right, Canada? Oh, oh, maybe it was Hungary? Or Belgium?"

Canada, who had been ignored by the other three for the past half-hour during this impromptu family gathering, elbowed America hard enough in his side to be felt even through the jacket and whispered something to his brother.

"Ah, I've got it!" Canada rolled his eyes, but said nothing as America continued. "It has to be Rome! I mean, you were part of the ancient Roman Empire once, right? And that guy was a total perv, even I know that!"

At this, France closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, a strange smile on his lips. "True, Rome had taught me much about the art of love. But it was not his custom to treat his acquisitions so, and remember, I was very young at the time." He opened his eyes and shrugged, still smiling. "No, Rome was not my first. You have made some very good guesses, America, but I think you will never know the answer."

"And why is that?" America huffed, a little insulted.

"Because I do not know who he was," France replied simply.

All three of them gaped at him, stunned into silence for about thirty seconds.

"You mean he wasn't one of us? He was just some random fellow who fucked you and then went along on his jolly way?" England eventually burst out, utterly horrified.

"I would have probably used a different choice of words, England, but yes, that more or less describes it. It was love at first sight for the both of us, but he had to return home soon afterwards, to his own people. And I never saw him again, though I searched for him for years."

"Does he have a name?" This was unbelievable coming from France, who always referred to his extensive notes or photographs or videos of past romantic exploits, every single one of them, human or nation or… well, let's just keep it at human or nation.

"He gave me a fake name, I can tell you that," France mused. "He did not want me to know his true identity, and I respected his wish, for his safety."

There was another brief silence, broken when Canada finally spoke up.

"I think that's actually kind of romantic, France… Is there any way you can, uh, maybe describe him to us? Do you remember anything at all?"

Eyes glinting mischievously, France started to say something possibly very perverted before England stomped on his foot to stop him from doing so. "Anything besides _that_ , you wanker…"

"Ah, I do not remember much else, _mon chou_ , it was so long ago. I was younger than America when I first took his virginity," England punched him in the kidneys in righteous fury, but France barely batted an eyelash, so used to the physical abuse by now, "but older than England when I took his…" Another punch, though he dodged this one, a dreamy, far-off smile on his face.

"Hmm, I remember he was tall, but I was rather short back then. And he had blond or light-brown hair that came to his shoulders. Gorgeous blue eyes. A strange yet seductive way of speaking, flawless manners… Oh, and he was definitely French. In every way." The last sentence was accompanied with a lewd wink.

"That sounds very wonderful, Papa, if a bit vague," Canada said as politely as he could.

"Sounds to me like you're describing yourself," England muttered sourly. "Maybe you were having a hallucination from eating rotten grains?"

France chuckled and patted England on the shoulder good-naturedly. "Oh _Angleterre_ , generous as always with your praise! Though it makes sense, only I would be able to please myself, _non_? Of course, it couldn't possibly have been me, but perhaps someone very much like me, whose affection and skill have yet to be matched from that day onward. My inspiration, if you will."

England gave his eternal enemy a half-hearted jab in the arm, and only Canada noticed the flicker of genuine jealousy in those green eyes. On the other side of the table, America's face had gone an unnatural shade of white, as if he had seen a ghost.

"America, are you all right, darling? You look quite ill!"

America shook his head as if to clear his mind, then grinned weakly back at his, for lack of a better word, family. "Oh, I'm fine, I'm fine. I was just… this milk is not agreeing with me, that's all."

Except that Canada knew his brother had not been drinking any milk at all that day.

* * *

Later, after they had left France's quarters and made their way back to their own hotel accommodations, America pulled Canada into his room and slammed the door shut.

"Canada!" he hissed, clutching his brother's shoulders with hysterical ferocity. "You're not gonna believe this, but I think France's first love is… himself. Himself!"

"…What? What in the world are you talking about?" Sure, America came up with some crazy theories, conspiracies and aliens and what not, but this was frankly unfeasible… unlike the other theories, most of which turned out to be partly true.

"Okay, remember last year's New Year's party at France's place, when you found me and France in the fountain even though we were heading to the second floor?"

All right, stories that began this way almost always meant that America was not lying. For one thing, he was not quite practiced enough to keep up an elaborate lie for long.

"I think I may need to sit down for this, America," Canada said in all seriousness.

"You bet your britches you need to sit down, this is gonna fuck up your mind. _Forever_."

At that warning, Canada sat down on the mattress and mentally prepared his brain for a good and thorough fucking. "Okay, I'm ready. Now what exactly happened?"

The explanation was simple enough, if one believed in magic and time travel and all that. Some time after midnight that fateful start of a new year, America dragged a rather inebriated France up the stairs to get him a clean shirt not covered in British vomit. He had found a wardrobe in an empty bedroom, and in his experience, wardrobes generally contained clothes, so he opened it and had a look inside.

"God, America, didn't you watch the Chronicles of Narnia? Wardrobes equal portals into another world!"

"Yeah, I know, but I wasn't thinking clearly, okay?"

Still drunk, France had insisted on picking out a shirt himself, not trusting America's hideous fashion sense, but instead he passed out and fell into the wardrobe, and America had to step in and drag him out. Unfortunately, he got a little distracted by this strange golden light shining from the back of the wardrobe, and well, Bob's your uncle.

"Let me get this straight. You're telling me you walked into a magic wardrobe that time-traveled several hundred years back to the Middle Ages, where France then took his own virginity without him realizing it?" Even knowing that America was not a liar, this was still hard to believe, and Canada tried desperately to convince himself that America was secretly taking some hallucinogens despite his clean image.

"I kid you not, Canada. I didn't know it was the Middle Ages of our world! I didn't know that girly kid was his younger self at the time. I thought I was in, I dunno, Narnia, or an alternate dimension. You gotta believe me, bro, almost five months passed in that wardrobe, France had wandered off before I ever got there, then I was wearing armor and saving princesses, way better than Medieval Times by the way, and when I finally found him and we returned to the standing stones, it must have somehow moved because we ended up in the fountain five minutes later in our time." America took a deep breath to steady his nerves, but he still looked quite disturbed, as disturbed as Canada felt.

"I later chalked it up to a really wicked dream due to the funky European cheese they were serving. I don't believe that magic stuff like England does, you know that. But… it felt really real," America said unhappily, rubbing his arms as if he felt cold. "And now that I think about it, I bet France doesn't remember a thing from that night. He was completely unconscious when we came back, and he just never spoke about it again."

"You're sure about that, America?" Canada asked quietly, still trying to process what he had just been told. "France doesn't suspect anything?" Somehow, Canada felt a surge of pity for his other father-figure, who had kept fond memories of his mystery lover all these years, when that person was actually himself. Though he had no way of predicting what France would think of such an outrageous revelation, the truth would at the least upset him, if not drive him insane, and he was already a bit… unhinged, to put it politely.

"Canada, you don't think we should tell him, do you? It might tear a hole in the space-time continuum, if it hasn't already, him, uh, meeting himself."

"Yeah, we should keep it to ourselves for now."

"We're not telling England either, right?"

"Definitely no."

"Hey Canada… do you think I did a very bad thing?"

Canada sighed. "Something bad happened, yes, but none of us could help it. It was meant to happen, if my limited understanding of time paradoxes is correct. I'm just glad you both got home safely, America."

"Yeah…"


	2. You're My Once in a LIfetime

After an unsuccessful attempt to woo England into his bed, which had been fiercely resisted by the other nation, France finally gave up (for now), and entered his room alone. This evening's discussion had brought up some memories that he had not perused over in decades, and besides, he felt like having some time to himself.

Back then, he was a carefree and of course extremely good-looking youth who had escaped the confines of the castle one afternoon, and had been enjoying a rare day in an abandoned field when he chanced upon the stranger wandering lost and in a daze. Seeing the man's dreadful condition, France had offered him wine and bread, and gradually the man was able to recover his speech.

Following some surreptitious inspection, France determined that the man was neither fey nor infernal, but possibly a witch or warlock, judging from his unusual clothes and strange accent. Yet this stranger somehow felt _safe_ , which was more than he could say about any wandering madman during that era.

This handsome stranger, who offered his obviously fake name as "Jean… err… Jean Jacques-Pierre… Picard," had to be hidden from the spying eyes of the castle inhabitants, who were quite fond of accusing people of witchcraft, but he recalled Jean being quite adaptable to the situation, and soon he could be passed off as an errant younger-son in need of shelter during those war-torn days.

For some reason, France could never quite remember Jean's face clearly, it was always somewhat blurred and the features never distinct. But he knew that he fell in love the moment he first looked into those deep blue eyes, and that the man returned his affections in a subdued way, whenever he was not flirting with the ladies in waiting or squires or anything that moved and could say " _bonjour_."

No one had commented on the fact that Jean slept in his room, which France was supremely grateful for, seeing as that should have been cause enough to get marched into a cell and be hanged for witchcraft. It had been so much fun, having an older brother figure in his life, for he had always been an older brother to others, and none acted that way towards him. As soon as it was safe for him to do so, Jean accompanied him everywhere, so wise and funny and charming, knowing things that no one else knew, and France avidly hung on to his every word and gesture. Undeterred by the odd looks Jean sometimes gave him, France even tried to flirt with the man, at first shyly, and then much more boldly.

* * *

It was perhaps one week into their acquaintance that France first attempted to discover Jean's past. His attempts were foiled at every turn, and he could only figure out that Jean came from a distant land, was left here by accident, and was waiting for a friend to join him before they could go back home.

"A friend?" He did not want to meet this friend, if it meant Jean had to leave him, but he was naturally very curious about Jean's background.

"Yes, someone I had helped raised as a child. A very bright and brave if somewhat _headstrong_ lad…"

"Oh! Does this mean you have family back home, Jean?"

"Of course. I have many younger brothers, and two sons, and one daughter."

"Y-you have a wife?" This was deeply distressing news, and France tried to keep from looking too upset.

Jean had laughed, such a warm and comforting sound. "No, no wife. I have someone I love, I suppose, but he does not love me back."

Now this sounded much more encouraging. "Would you stay here, Jean, if you knew someone loved you?" France asked, with his prettiest smile.

"I can make no promises, but I would consider it, yes," Jean finally said, his expression full of sadness that France was not able to understand at the time.

* * *

Weeks passed, and Jean paced the castle walls constantly, searching the horizon for any sign of his friend's arrival, but in vain. At last, he seemed to give up, resigned to his place here, to France's secret delight.

France convinced the castle lord and lady to grant him freedom, now that he had a perfectly capable guardian to watch over him, and with their consent, he and Jean moved into a cozy hunting lodge. Now that they were safe from possible accusations of witchcraft and other devilries, safe from petty gossip and more importantly, safe from the possibility of Jean's friend finding him, France felt free to embrace his new love and kiss him tenderly.

Jean had pulled away first, a slight frown on his lips. "Francis, my dearest Francis… Are you everything you say you are? Because I feel that this should not happen between us."

"I love you with all my heart and soul, Jean, that is all you need to know. And like you said, you should not deny love where you find it. Please, do not deny me, for I don't think I will ever love anyone like you ever again."

"Young people often say that-" Jean murmured.

"But I mean it!" France interrupted passionately. "Jean, I know that you are the one I will always love, even if we should part. Do you not feel anything for me?"

"Rather, I feel too much for you, and that worries me, Francis."

Almost to the point of tears, France remembered running out of the house and rather ruining his day by sobbing and weeping until he fell asleep in the middle of the forest somewhere. When he next woke, Jean had found him and had tucked him into bed, and France watched, wide-eyed, as he undressed in the light of the setting sun, ruddy light revealing well-sculpted muscle and pleasing, masculine lines.

"Sweet Francis, do you doubt my love for you?" Jean asked as he knelt onto the side of the bed, smiling so sadly down at him.

"No, Jean, never," he breathed, his heart pounding loudly in his ears.

As if making up his mind after a long internal struggle, Jean nodded solemnly, then kissed him. "Tell me if something hurts, or if you want to stop, but say nothing else. Promise?"

France nodded, as Jean threw back the covers and carefully pulled off his tunic, placing light kisses on his lips and cheeks and bared neck and chest. Jean had turned out to be an exceedingly gentle and sensitive lover, and he somehow realized that this was France's first time with another man, and thus whispered soft sweet encouragements and nonsense endearments to calm him and make him feel good, before taking him to that place only true lovers could know. The minute details of that night had been lost in the passage of time, but France was quite sure it had been everything he ever dreamed, the kind of perfect deflowering that could only be found in cheesy romance novels and never in real life. Sometimes he did wonder if it was a dream, losing his virginity to such a perfect man. If so, it was a dream he was happy to remember, even to its bitter end.

* * *

A few blissful months later, another stranger rode up to their doorstep, dressed in chainmail and a heavy blue cloak embroidered with stars, followed by a flock of mourning doves and ravens wheeling overhead. It was none other than the brave friend that Jean had been expecting, who had at last found him and was ready to take him home. France could remember under the sound of flapping wings and melancholy cooing and unpleasant cawing their happy reunion, their embraces and babbling in a language he could not quite place. He had darted out to them, clutching at Jean's tunic possessively, pleading with Jean to take him along, to not abandon him here. The stranger looked at Jean, somewhat horrified but not too surprised, and Jean shook his head sorrowfully.

"Francis, your place is here, you know you cannot leave. Though I wish I could, I cannot stay with you, there are people who need me back home and I must go to them. Be good, Francis, and never forget that you are loved, and that love undeniably is all around, wherever you look." Jean tucked a freshly plucked wild rose blossom behind his ear and kissed him chastely on the lips, while tears streamed down France's cheeks unabated.

"Farewell, and good luck, _mon amour._ _Je t'aime de tout mon coeur…_ _"_

* * *

As they rode off into the distance, France had vowed to search for his Jean and convince him to come back and stay with him, no matter what it took. But he did not succeed and was forced to give up after thirty years, convinced that his first lover had died. The countless men and women he took into bed afterwards could never come close, despite his best efforts to satisfy them and keep them close. In fact, the one person he loved nearly as much as he loved Jean, that girl who died for him, he did not, could not, love in that same way.

Eventually, France forgot about Jean, perhaps out of subconscious self-protection, and no one had probed into that question of his first love until America's innocent query this day.

No matter, it had been nice to remember something so sweet and marvelous, even if such nostalgia made him a little sad. Sighing deeply, France turned over to get more comfortable and almost screamed in terror when he saw England looming over him on the other side of his bed.

" _Mon dieu_ , you almost gave me a heart attack! What are you doing here?" France looked over and saw the boys peeking in from the doorway, their eyeglasses glinting creepily in the moonlight. "And you two as well? Is something wrong? Whatever she may claim, I didn't touch her."

Scowling, England said, "They were worried about you after today's conversation, idiot. You always get sentimental and depressed thinking about the past, especially regarding those humans, and America here woke me up so we can all… talk it over. If you like."

"My dears, I am fine. Thank you for the concern, but I am not that maudlin, believe it or not."

England looked as if he disagreed, but instead he slid under the covers, cursing softly, and America and Canada jumped in after him, so that they squished him all to one side. It was dark in the room, but France could feel their gazes on him, and he smiled back unevenly, until England reached out and gently wiped the wetness from the corner of his eyes.

"Will you let us love you as much as you loved him, France?" England whispered, voice soft and so uncharacteristically tender.

Then France broke down and cried, wept for those wasted years and missed chances and relationships that never worked out, for the love that he gave but was never wholly returned, not until tonight.

"Yes, I will, because I love you all that much," he answered at last.

The briefest of silences.

"Liar."

Then he kicked them all off the bed. But lovingly.

* * *

_[epilogue]_

A few weeks later, France returned to his home to find that all of his Baroque-era antique wardrobes had been replaced with sensible, utilitarian Ikea ones. He knew America and Canada were behind this, judging by the way they stared at him with haunted eyes for several weeks afterward, sometimes sobbing and dashing away guiltily. But he also knew he was loved, as Jean promised that he would be, and so he smiled to himself, happy at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> original note from when it posted 2011: [author's note: This is the best France pairing I have ever written. I am not sure if I could write a better or more plausible story than this, and I'm sure the original requester of the prompt and other readers agree.]

**Author's Note:**

> i also don't remember writing this, but it's a fave. go past me from 10 years ago, you absolute madman!


End file.
